Time's Scythe

"A man is the sum of his memories, you know, and a Time Lord even more so." -The Fifth Doctor

One

"I'm afraid you're dead now, young man," said the Librarian, (an old man with swept-back silver hair) and the Doctor felt less surprise than, perhaps, he should have. It was difficult to mistake death for something else. He had been burned away, and when one is dispersed to their constituent atoms one very much expects to be dead. He waved his hands in front of his face and flexed his fingers; his body seemed to be in order.

Still, he had not expected the first sight to greet him on the other side to be a library. Though, and he admitted this only to himself, perhaps he should have given the number of times that he had visited here. It was different now, he realised, as he looked around. The corners of the room were indistinct spider shadows, and the shelves near him and the librarian were the only ones not thick with dust. An oil lamp, polished to a high shine, was lit and sitting on the heavy oak desk by the door. Thick, dark green velvet curtains were pulled close over the tall windows, and the air was still and expectant, waiting. Somewhere, nearby, a clock was ticking.

The Doctor shrugged off his leather jacket and sank down into the old armchair by the desk. A book lay on the side table, its dust jacket missing and the pages dog-eared and yellowing with age. Just behind it sat a picture in an elegant silver frame. He picked it up and frowned. It was a photograph of a rose: pink and freshly bloomed.

"There's a whole garden outside," commented the Librarian. "If you come back when it's light I'd be happy to show you. I'm usually in need of some help with the pruning."

"You're here alone then?" asked the Doctor, carefully putting the frame back on the table, determined not to give it a second glance.

The old man nodded. "Mostly."

"I'm here to keep you company, I suppose?"

"Certainly not. You have your own journey to make. I'm just a beginning." He smiled, not unkindly, and took the armchair opposite the Doctor. He did not slouch, but produced a bottle of port and two glasses from somewhere under the chair.

"You think that's a good idea?" asked the Doctor.

"I think that you can forgive yourself one drink," replied the librarian, passing him a half-full glass. "At least," he added.

The Doctor's eyes studied him over his glass. He took a quick sip and laid it on the table. "What would you know about regret?"

"Only what I've read," he chuckled, casting an eye at his bookshelves.

"Pride."

"Or arrogance. Something I've never quite been able to let go of."

"You regret nothing," said the Doctor, somewhere between a question and a statement.

The Librarian was silent for a moment, and the shadows around his face seemed to grow. "I remember picking up a rock to kill an injured man."

"Ian stopped you," said the Doctor, catching his own memory of the incident.

The Librarian nodded, his eyes fixed on his port. "I wanted Susan to be safe. I wanted to escape, and leave those busybody teachers to their own devices." He looked up, fixing the Doctor with a hawk-like stare. "I was embarrassed, when he asked what I was doing, embarrassed by such a primitive creature, because his moral courage was greater than mine. I was a foolish old man."

"Older now," murmured the Doctor.

"But no wiser."

"I suppose that's why I still come here."

"You are imperfect and you are mortal. And you are more afraid than anyone I have seen for a very, very long time."

"Given what I've seen, it'd be pretty stupid of me not to be afraid."

The Librarian waved a wrinkled hand dismissively. "Humans! There is little to fear out there. There is more to fear in here." He tapped his head with one long finger. "You have created your own demons."

"I was given them," snapped the Doctor.

"Yes, and yet you agreed to carry them around, didn't you? Hmm? You must live with what you are. I suggest you talk to him about it."

"Don't worry, I will," said the Doctor, his voice darkening.

"Violence comes far too easily to you, " said the Librarian, snatching up his book from the table by the Doctor and pulling out a pince-nez. He settled back in the armchair and flicked through the book, searching for his place.

"You want me to leave?" asked the Doctor. He downed the rest of the port and it burned his throat. The sensation was pleasant enough, but he didn't ask for a second drink.

"Stay, or leave, it makes little difference to me," said the Librarian, glancing at him over the top of his book. "Spend a few days reading, spend a few centuries working in the gardens, I doubt you will change. You're too stubborn, and the journey ahead will still be the same."

"You do want me to leave."

"I am quite content, thank you."

"But this is a library. Where's the 'quiet, please.' sign?"

The Librarian frowned. "This is also my home, and I expect my guests to be polite."

"I didn't mean…"

"Oh, I've seen much worse. "

"I should go."

"Perhaps some Dickens?" asked the Librarian, waving a hand at a well-stocked shelf by the door. "You might need something to read, young man, you've a long trip ahead of you."

The Doctor examined the shelf for a moment, selected one of the soft-bound leather volumes and slipped it into his jacket.

Two

The Doctor pulled back the oak-panelled door and found a dark stairwell beyond. Dim lamps were attached to the walls, spaced at long intervals. The Doctor began to descend, his feet making no sound, as if the air around him was determined not to be disturbed by his presence. Soon the lamps changed to torches, sitting in heavy iron brackets. He was tempted to pick one up, to draw comfort from the nearness of the light and warmth of the flame.

Deeper and deeper he went, and he felt as though he were going farther and farther back in time. The thought amused him more than it should have: ahead of him lay the future, but time was a concept with no true meaning here. Centuries could be spent descending these steps and nothing would change.

Finally he arrived at a roughly hewn wooden door, set into a stone arch. A heavy bronze latch was bolted onto it. He pulled it open, surprisingly light, and walked into the tunnel ahead. Dim and damp, it could have been one of any number of subterranean cavities he remembered.

He walked on, always taking a right when the tunnels split.

"Who's there!" called a voice as he approached the twenty-seventh junction. There was a flash of movement and the wave of a torch. The Doctor almost smiled; company at last.

"Just passing through. I'm not sure of the way," he called back.

The torch reappeared and a little man with an unruly mop of black hair approached.

"No need to go sneaking about then is there?" he said, almost an accusation. "You never know what you might find in here." He glanced over his shoulder, before holding the torch up to the Doctor's face. The heat was enough to hurt, but he did not flinch. "My, my," said the explorer. "I wasn't expecting you quite so soon."

"That a problem?"

"Of course not! I know the way. Come along, come along." He began to stride away down the corridor, the light departing with him, but the Doctor needed only a few long strides to catch up. "You never know what might be watching you," confessed the explorer. "We'd best be careful."

"Then there are things down here? Trying to find you?" asked the Doctor.

The explorer smiled self-consciously. "It's only what I bring with me," he said. "But it's enough to make things very unpleasant if I'm not careful."

"So what are they?"

The explorer put a finger to his lips. "Ssh. I hear something," he whispered. "Stay here."

He moved away in a scurry, carrying the light with him. The Doctor sighed and leant against the wall, kicking at the ground in frustration.

A moment later the light grew brighter, but the explorer's face was white. He said nothing until he was very close to the Doctor, and was able to mutter in his ear. "We're being followed."

"By what?" asked the Doctor, lowering his voice.

The explorer cast a look over his shoulder. "They're close. We have to move on. Quickly."

Not much of an answer, thought the Doctor. He followed anyway. While he had past only twenty-seven junctions, he had a vague notion that the labyrinth could be infinitely huge; getting lost in here wasn't a pleasant thought at all.

They walked on. They didn't speak, and the Doctor wondered why. There was the occasional over-the-shoulder glance from the explorer accompanied either by a quick smile or a worried frown. A few times he stopped suddenly and put a finger to his lips, but the Doctor would neither hear or see anything of concern. After a few moments, the explorer appeared satisfied and would walk on, the Doctor trailing in his wake, his patience rapidly expiring.

The tunnel split again, and the explorer held up a hand. He cocked his head and the Doctor resisted the urge to roll his eyes.

"Now what?" he asked, a little more angrily than he'd intended.

"They're close," murmured the explorer. He turned to face the Doctor, his eyes wide and face white. "When I say run…"

"No," said the Doctor shortly. "I'm a bit sick of this game of hide and seek you've got going on here. Give me that." He pulled the torch out of the explorer's hand and waved it at the darkness. "All right, I know there's someone out there! Show yourself!"

"Oh my," whispered his companion. "You shouldn't have done that."

The Doctor turned on him. "Why not? All you've shown me is how to be afraid of the dark, or have you just been leading me round in circles?"

"It's not as easy as it looks." The smile vanished from the explorer's face.

He stepped away from the Doctor, his form fading into nothingness, and suddenly the Doctor was surrounded by figures, dark and looming and richly robed. He took a step towards the nearest one and lifted the lamp to his face. Stone eyes, sombre features; the look condemned him.

The Doctor stumbled backwards, suddenly overcome with fear. With guilt. Bile rose in his throat. These figures were Time Lords.

He recovered himself quickly, and stood, facing the nearest. "What do you want?" he asked.

"Death," replied the first, his voice heavy.

"Death," repeated another, somewhere to the left.

"Death," said a third, behind him.

"Death…Death…Death…" The voices became a chant, the chant a scream, burning in the Doctor's ears.

"Death!"

He whirled round wildly, smashing the lamp against the wall. The light gone, he could see nothing, but ran anyway, shoving past the screaming figures.

He didn't know how long he ran for, but when he stopped his legs fell beneath him and his lungs stung as he breathed. His hands were slippery with blood; he'd injured them as he ran, crashing into walls he could not see. Now though, the darkness was a comfort. He sat, closing his eyes and hoped to sleep.

Nimble fingers pressing into his shoulder woke him. He jerked into wakefulness and scrambled away.

"Afraid?" It was the explorer, holding another lamp. A brighter one.

"Do you always run?" he asked.

The explorer shrugged. "My way of freedom. I make more of it than I should, I suppose. They found more fear in you than me anyway." He offered his hand, and helped the Doctor to his feet. "It's not far now, in fact there's a house on the outskirts. Feel free to visit, if you like."

"Thank you," said the Doctor, surprised to find that he meant it.

"And do try and enjoy the trip, won't you?" said the explorer. "It'll only be new once."

Three

The labyrinth faded like a cloud on a hot summer's day as the Doctor walked towards the rickety wooden bridge. He approached cautiously, half-expecting a disgruntled goat to leap out from underneath it and demand a toll for crossing.

With the complete non-appearance of any fairy-tale creatures and the bridge safely behind him, the Doctor walked on until he found himself on a beach of fine, soft sand. The sun beat down on his back, convincing him to take off his jacket and tuck it under his arm.

The city was here; he could see it spiralling high on the island some distance from the coast. It's protector was much closer, however, and sitting some way down the beach, watching the waves roll in.

The mechanic did not stir at the Doctor's approach, and so he waited. Patience did not come easily to him, but he did not want to offend this one before he had asked his questions.

"Am I really that interesting?" asked the mechanic, his voice far more annoyed than the calm expression on his face would suggest.

"I was trying to be polite," the Doctor told him.

"There's nothing stopping you from passing."

"I thought I was supposed to be enjoying this trip. Getting the benefit of advice and experience of this afterlife of ours."

"Is that what he told you?" The mechanic opened his eyes and stood up. He picked up the velvet smoking jacket that he had been sitting on and gave it a firm shake, dislodging the grains of sand that had clung to it.

"Nah, he just gave me a book."

"Have you read it?"

"I was saving it for later."

The mechanic nodded and began to walk along the beach, towards the small hut that lay some hundred yards away, beneath the shade of a crop of tall, willowy trees. "I'd offer to take you out to the city, but I'm a little tired, and I think it would be best left to another day. When you're feeling more settled in. But the least I can do is offer you a cup of tea."

The Doctor grinned as they entered the hut and he realised that it was, in fact, a lot bigger on the inside than it was on the outside. Most every surface was covered with some sort of half finished gadget, and the floor was littered with incomplete projects that had been shoved out of the way and were accumulating significant coverings of dust. The only clear surface was by the door where the kettle stood next to a sink along with a couple of mugs and a tin of biscuits.

"You keep busy," said the Doctor as the kettle began to hiss.

The mechanic smiled, fished a couple of teabags out of a box and ducked under the table to get the milk out of the small fridge located there. "We all find ways to keep ourselves occupied. One way or the other. I rather like the ocean."

He poured the just-boiled water into the two mugs and waited.

When the tea had brewed and the Doctor held the warm mug between his hands he felt a great deal better, safer, somehow. The mechanic was quite relaxed, quite comfortable in this workshop of his, and as he took long sips of his own tea, he cast an eye over the nearest workbench.

"I left most of this stuff on Earth," he told the Doctor. "I wonder what the Brigadier did with it all."

"Storage, probably."

"So I'm told," said the mechanic doubtfully. "There was so much I never had a chance to finish."

"You could have. You didn't have to… to do what you did."

"I think 'die' is the word you're looking for. But you're wrong."

"You had a choice," said the Doctor.

"And you didn't? You could have let the girl die. You could have taken the TARDIS and escaped whenever you wanted to. But you didn't. Because it wasn't that sort of choice."

"I had to save those people."

"Because it was the right thing to do?" asked the Doctor. "Or because your guilt would have consumed you otherwise?" He held up a placating hand at the Doctor's look of outrage. "Your guilt drove you, whether you care to admit that or not. Just as my fear drove me."

"And that was more important than going on living."

"That's what I thought."

The Doctor gulped down the rest of his tea, and began strolling round the room, taking a closer look at some of the electronics and chronotronics and micro-welding. Something inside him had gone very, very cold and he needed a distraction. It was strange that he could look at these objects and understand what they did and how they were made, but he knew that didn't have half the skill that the other did in their construction. A matter of necessity, he supposed. He'd never been exiled, but he could remember the sort of desperation it had driven him too.

"You never held a grudge," said the Doctor.

"What would be the point?"

"I don't know." He paused, his fingers clenching his empty mug. "Some days I hate them."

"I did too. I let it go."

The Doctor shook his head. "I can't. I killed them all and I still can't forgive them."

"Give yourself time," said the mechanic. "Don't bury it; it'll eat you inside out. But you've a difficult few years ahead."

"I know."

The mechanic pulled open one of the drawers under the nearest bench, and threw what he had retrieved at the Doctor. He caught it easily, a shining brass oval.

"Open it," said the mechanic. Inside it was a compass, ornately designed. "The sea's to the west, but you'll want to go east, inland to the river. He'll be there, sooner or later. He'll take you across."

Four

The river was hundreds of metres wide, the Doctor guessed, and the water rushed past in a torrent; if he tried to swim he'd be dragged downstream or dashed against the sharp rocks that jutted out of the water in vicious crops. He expected to have to wait by the bank for some time, but it was only a matter of seconds before he saw the dark silhouette of the rowboat and the Ferryman emerging from the fog rolling over the river.

"Do I have to pay a toll?" he asked. The Ferryman stuck his oar straight down into the water with a firm movement as the wooden boat scraped against the rocky bank with a solid crunch. His hooded face looked up at the Doctor. He was clothed in a coarse brown fabric, with yards of the stuff circling around his neck and over his head, clouding his face with shadows.

"What would you pay with?" he asked. His voice was deep and rich and serious.

The Doctor reached into his pockets and was surprised to find them empty, all the usual paraphernalia that he carried around with him was gone. Then his fingers clasped around the Dickens novel that the Librarian had lent him.

"Nothing," he said. "I've nothing. I'm sorry."

"I do not ask for a toll," the Ferryman told him. "And you only have what you carry with you."

"You'll take me to the other side?" asked the Doctor.

"There's no other way to cross the river."

The Doctor stepped carefully into the boat, gripping the side as he sat down opposite the Ferryman, who nodded and used an oar to push away from the bank. With sure, strong strokes, he propelled them into the mist.

The silence stretched uncomfortably. The Ferryman seemed perfectly at peace, perfectly content with his task, but the Doctor was growing uneasy. He fidgeted on the hard bench seat and cast a look over his shoulder, but by now all three hundred and sixty degrees of his view were obscured by the swirling grey mists.

"Don't suppose there are any sea monsters around here are there?" he asked.

"And if there were?"

The Doctor shrugged. "The usual, I guess: improvise."

The Ferryman's shoulders shifted, and the Doctor swallowed, taking a tighter grip of the boat's side. Suddenly, the hood was thrown back and the Doctor was confronted with a mass of brown curls and a smile to rival his own.

"Why, Doctor, I do believe you're afraid of me," said the Ferryman, still grinning.

"Don't be stupid," the Doctor muttered.

"I've been rowing this boat back and forth for the better part of a millennia, and I've yet to see so much as a single fish in this river. Does that make you feel any better?"

"Yeah, I suppose." He shifted in his seat again. "How did you do it?" There, that had been painless. The one thing that he really wanted to know; the answer that had so eluded him time and time again.

"Hmm?"

"The Daleks, you went back and blew up their bunker; you took the Presidency and let Gallifrey been invaded so you could save it; you stopped…" The Doctor broke off and laughed. "…you stopped the heat death of the universe. And you never doubted for a second."

"Ah," nodded the Ferryman. "That."

"Yeah. So how come it was so easy for you?"

The Ferryman twisted the oars and plunged them down into the water, bringing the boat to a sudden stop. He stared at the Doctor for a long moment. "He faced his fear, and that was more important than going on living."

"It's so long ago," said the Doctor. "I can't remember it clearly."

"It was a moment of perfect clarity. He still hasn't found that, but that was my inheritance."

"I don't want to be afraid."

The Ferryman pulled up the oar and began to row again. "We are all products of our circumstances." He grinned suddenly, and the Doctor grinned back. It was impossible not to, the warmth there was palatable. "And we've been in much worse circumstances."

"Than genocide?"

"Personal circumstances," said the Ferryman, correcting himself. "There is bitterness and hatred ahead of you. The calm waters end here; the others are not old enough to understand."

"Understand what? We're dead."

The Ferryman shrugged. "You'll do what you want anyway. Just be careful. You've enough problems of your own without picking up anyone else's."

"So it is his fault," murmured the Doctor. "It is his fault."

The Ferryman took up his oars and began to row, faster this time. "Now don't be foolish. You made your own choices. And if the next words I hear are anything about fairness then I shall capsize us, and one of us will have a pretty miserable time getting to the shore."

"Thanks a lot," said the Doctor.

"Just doing my job," said the Ferryman, flashing another grin.

The fog had cleared a little now, and the other side of the river was in sight. A rocky beach, and behind it, bright green fields and little wooden fences and stiles. English countryside, it seemed.

The boat ground against the beach, and the Doctor leapt out quickly and helped the Ferryman to pull it up the shore.

"I stay on this side, mostly," the Ferryman told him. "There's a little pier and a shed a few hundred yards upstream. Best place to look for me."

"No toll required?" asked the Doctor, wandering up the beach and taking a leap onto the grass.

"There's never a toll!" called the Ferryman, and his rich, booming voice seemed to echo against the sky.